The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; And floating about the under-sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach[6] stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; But anon her awful jubilant voice, With a music strange and manifold, Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roll’d Thro’[7] the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song. [1] 1830. Grey. [2] 1830 till 1848. Which. [3] 1863. River. [4] 1830. Sung. [5] 1830. Through. [6] A coronach is a funeral song or lamentation, from the Gaelic _Corranach_. _Cf_. Scott’s _Waverley_, ch. xv., “Their wives and daughters came clapping their hands and _crying the coronach_ and shrieking”. [7] 1830 till 1851. Through. A Dirge First printed in 1830. 1 Now is done thy long day’s work; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk[1] Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 2 Thee nor carketh[2] care nor slander; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O’er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 3 Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; Chaunteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny? Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 4 Crocodiles wept tears for thee; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor’s tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O’er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 5 Round thee blow, self-pleached[3] deep, Bramble-roses, faint and pale, And long purples[4] of the dale. Let them rave. These in every shower creep. Thro’[5] the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 6 The gold-eyed kingcups fine: The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 7 Wild words wander here and there; God’s great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused: But let them rave. The balm-cricket[6] carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. [1] Still used in the north of England for “birch”.